Holy Matrimony
by Antoinette Rose
Summary: One shot. Tyrion's thoughts as he awaits his bride at the altar. (Rated T for cursing.)


_My favorite couple has to be Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister. Who would've thought! It's bizarre, since I don't really ship characters on "Game of Thrones." I try not to get too attached, since I know eventually, they'll get killed off!_

_Thanks for the added paranoia, George._

_These two are adorable, though. And no, while I have yet to read the series—I do know that Tyrion and Sansa's relationship differs vastly from the show. Let me just say that I prefer the show's version, haha. So, just a one-shot, my first crack at a "Game of Thrones" fan-fiction. Sincerely yours, Antoinette Rose_

* * *

That little _shit_.

My half-wit of a royal nephew had decided to take it upon himself to lead Lady Stark up the aisle.

As if this day couldn't be any worse.

Resting her arm in his, Sansa was remarkably steady for a child of fourteen years. She raised her chin, holding her head as high as she could.

My father insisted she was the Key to the North. Sansa Stark, with her auburn hair and haunting blue eyes, would give us control over Winterfell and ultimately, the North. If my brother were here, I was certain my father would've arranged a marriage between _him_ and Sansa. It was only me by default, for lack of a better Lannister.

The doors to the sept slid to a close as they began their decent towards the altar. Towards _me_. Their footsteps echoed across the stone floor—and the confidence Sansa had shown moments before was quickly evaporating. She was desperate to free herself from Joffrey, and I couldn't blame her. It was as if she was silently pleading with every person they passed—as if hoping one of them would go against the King.

She had followed her father to King's Landing, to become my nephew's bride. To my horror, she'd been under his treachery ever since. Sansa was our prisoner and everyone in my family, in King's Landing in fact, were extremely dutiful in reminding her. Her place in the Kingdom's hierarchy hung over her, as her father's head had baked in the sun.

I'd seen her bruises and heard the stories from Shae. When Sansa tried to hide the marks across her arms, they were somehow easier to see. Her eyes were burdened with weeks of restless sleep, her skin pale. The atrocities Joffrey had placed on her were the only true crime—and as the Hand of the King, I'd spoken up.

All I could think of when I looked at Sansa Stark was her weeping at the foot of my belligerent nephew, her gown shredded to pieces.

Even then, she didn't accept my peace offering. As Joffrey stewed in the Iron Throne, she bid her time. She studied me, my expression, my extended hand, my blonde hair. That alone screamed my name. Her eyes then fell on my lapel.

The Hand of the King's brooch.

The same symbol her father had once worn with such high regard—and at the time, I was merely keeping it warm until my own father returned.

She looked to me as if it were only a matter of time before I turned on her. She wasn't necessarily wrong, either; the Lannisters were not merciful. Every one of us had betrayed her, when what she needed most was a friend.

When her hand finally slid into mine, it was trembling. I bowed my head, but found myself pressing my thumb against her skin. I wasn't sure what I was trying to do, other than perhaps assure her that I was safe. Her shaking ceased—and she lifted herself from the ground.

Would she have taken my hand had she known what my father was plotting?

Did she think she was somehow being punished for taking my assistance?

I was not my sister or her child King—or even my brother, for that matter. I was especially not my father. I was not a perfect man, but she'd be protected under my guard.

As they continued down the candlelit aisle, the King had Sansa's hand in a vice grip. By the lust in his eyes, he wanted her more than ever, to do with as he pleased. Sansa was his favorite toy, after all.

And this display would not go unpunished.

Joffrey would _never_ be able to sink his sword into his betrothed again. Once Sansa became my wife, I'd be able to keep him away. She'd never again fear for her life, for that moment when my nephew would command his guards to do the unthinkable—and whether or not she'd live to see another day.

The boy always wanted what he couldn't have. In that respect, high or lowborn, we were all the same. I wanted nothing more than to spend my life with Shae, and I knew I'd never be able to. Joffrey was set to marry Lady Margaery Tyrell, who had spent her life learning how to play our vicious game.

Despite what I wanted, here I stood.

My sister often referred to Sansa Stark as a little bird, a dove, who sang her words and obediently did as she was told. Starting today, she would finally be free of Joffrey's cage—and unfortunately, was flying straight into mine.

I never imagined Sansa as a bird. It was true, she was not as conniving as I assumed Margaery could be, and she was kind. Much too kind, in fact. It didn't mean she believed every word that spewed from my sister's lips.

From the day she had turned her back on my nephew, I had seen Eddard Stark's daughter. Through and through, she was a true symbol of her house, a dire wolf. This wolf, who had seen it all, was being traded from one lion to another, passed about like a large bone after a kill.

It surely wasn't the fairytale any girl her age dreamed of.

I was no knight in shining armor, as Ser Loras portrayed himself to be. There was no story in the Seven Kingdoms that made the dwarf the hero. I was, however, capable of showing her kindness. I planned to continue doing so.

Joffrey led Sansa up the stairs, his crown crooked over his blonde hair. I wanted nothing more than to slap that golden trinket off of his head, but I had to remind myself that it was only a symbol of power. It meant nothing. My father was the Lannister who held _all _the cards. If he hadn't learned that yet, Joffrey was even more ignorant than I thought.

He released Sansa from his grasp and deposited her beside me. He wasn't quite done with me yet, though. With a sneer, he reached down and took the stool I was to use in the ceremony—and scurried down the stairs with it.

No one spoke a word.

Sansa was quivering beside me, waiting for the other sword to fall, for me to react.

I should've hit him when I had the chance.

Instead, I turned to my bride and offered her a small smile. She cocked her head, perplexed. I thought about reaching for her, then thought better of it. I had a part to play now, and so did she.

I'd get my point across to the King, sooner rather than later.

"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

Oh, _fuck_.

What a fantastic day this was turning out to be.


End file.
